Larceny and Old Lace (10 page)

“Any,” I said. “Just try to stay on it.”

I don't think she heard me. She had already begun a rousing rendition of “Bringing in the Sheaves.”

Through my front window I saw three cats make a beeline for The Purple Rose. One of their number was either in ex-cruciating pain or it was time for a roll in the hay.

I
slept very well on that authentic Queen Anne couch. Probably better than the old gal had herself. I am not used to having someone else around, and it was a real treat to feel safe. There is definitely something to be said for sleeping with both eyes closed.

I was determined to get to Denny's early to grab a table in the nonsmoking section. Anita is the only one of our number who still puffs, but because she belongs to a strict religious denomination that views cigarettes as “tools of the devil,” she doesn't dare complain. I know, it is probably unfair of me to take advantage of her in that way, but so be it. Besides, she's not going to be able to smoke at those celestial breakfasts she's always raving about, so she might as well get used to it.

Bob wanted to go uptown first, on the off chance he would be permitted to see Rob, so I drove to the restaurant alone. Before leaving, I made Bob promise to stop by Denny's for at least a token appearance so that I could properly introduce him. It was in his own best interest to do so, but the poor man was practically a basket case, and I wasn't going to count on him. Just seeing him was enough to reclaim half my night's sound sleep.

Much to my surprise, the nonsmoking room at Denny's was virtually empty. The only other folks were a family of Yankee tourists from Wisconsin. They were big, blond, and underbred, all in obscenely good health. They had expansive gestures and loud voices, and there was nowhere in the room that was free
of their presence. It was the Northern occupation all over again. I briefly considered moving to the other room. However, when one is trying to do a little detecting, it is helpful to be able to see.

“What is this ‘grits' thing?” the mother asked.

She pronounced grits in one syllable, and it grated on me something awful.

“That's what they call cream of wheat down here,” the father said.

“I want the kids to have that,” the mother said. “And ask the waitress for milk to go with it.”

“The milk might cost extra,” the father said. “There are some cheap pancake breakfasts on the children's menu.”

“Pancakes, pancakes,” the children chorused. They were probably preschoolers, but they were about my height. Mama should have sent me up north for my wonder years.

The parents dutifully returned to the menu.

“Well, I don't know,” the mother said. “They can get pancakes back home. Aren't we here for the cultural experience, John?”

“You bet,” the father agreed. “And I'm going to try the biscuits and gravy.”

The mother smiled victoriously. “That settles it then, biscuits for us. Hot cereal for them.”

The children wailed, giving credence to that obscure theory that it really was Yankee preschoolers who gave forth with the infamous rebel yells during the War Between the States.

Their waitress arrived at the same time Wynnell arrived at my table.

“Y'all ready to order now?” the waitress asked pleasantly.

“We all is,” the father said. He laughed, as if he had just said something funny.

“Damn Yankees,” Wynnell snarled. Of course being a southern lady, Wynnell snarled discreetly.

The waitress, a mere child herself, waited patiently while the father nudged the mother, priming her for his next funny remark.

“They all,” he pointed to the children, “will be having the grits. We all,” he gestured at his wife and then himself, “will
be having the biscuits with sausage gravy. That isn't too spicy, is it?”

“Sir?”

“On account of John's heart,” the wife said. She spoke loud and slow, as if the waitress had a hearing problem, “The doctor says he has to avoid spicy foreign foods.”

“Ma'am?”

The father belched good-naturedly. “Spice. That's what it does to me. This stuff isn't spicy, is it? You know, hot?”

The waitress shrugged. “I don't think it is.”

The wife nodded sagely. “That means it's hot,” she translated. “Well, in that case, we'll be having the grits, too. And toast please.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, does cinnamon on the toast cost extra?”

“No, ma'am. What would y'all like to drink?”

The wife whispered to her husband, who shook his head. She whispered again, as loud as a choir of snakes.

“Is the water here safe to drink?” he asked obediently.

“That does it,” Wynnell said.

She stood up and would have charged the Yankee pestilence had I not grabbed a fold of her outer garment. As I should well have expected, a piece about the size of a pillow case tore loose.

“Now look what you've done!”

I looked. The swatch of fabric was in my hand, but Wynnell's outfit looked no different.

“Oh, you've ruined it,” Wynnell wailed, oblivious of the Yankees. “Now I'm going to have to go home and change.”

I tried to pat the fabric back in place. There was no telling where it came from. Wynnell sews free-form.

“Not there, you idiot,” she snapped. It is hard being a southern lady when one's ensemble is in shreds.

“Hey, hey, what have we here?” the Major asked. It must have been his military training, but I hadn't heard as much as a sole scuff against the floor.

“Sit,” I hissed to Wynnell. “No one will notice anything.”

She sat, the severed material draped across her lap like an
oversize napkin. I hoped my other guests didn't request napkins to match their outfits.

Gretchen showed up at 7:30 on the dot, as I expected her to. The woman has a thing about punctuality. She claims—and I believe her—to have given birth to all four of her children on their respective due dates, as determined by her doctor months in advance. Furthermore, all four children were born at precisely 10
A.M.
All this from a woman who refuses to wear a watch.

“You know of course that Joan Lunden is interviewing the three tenors at seven-forty-six.”

“No ma'am,” I said.

Gretchen shoved her glasses back up into place. “Of course, I'm taping the show, but I would rather watch it live. You know, Abigail, I really don't see why I'm needed here. I didn't make any threats against Rob Silverburg, now did I?”

“No ma'am, and that's Goldburg, not Silverburg.”

Peggy's iridescent blue eye shadow preceded her into the room, providing a much needed diversion. She was chewing something. The woman eats three square meals a day, plus innumerable “pre” and “post” meals. It isn't humanly possible to be that horny. Neither is it possible to eat that much and not be any fatter than she is. The woman is either an alien from another solar system or a bulimic sex addict. If you knew Peggy, you'd vote for the former.

“Is that friend of Rob Goldburg's here yet?”

I ducked a shower of crumbs. “No, but he'll be coming later on.”

“Good, maybe then there's time.”

“For what, dear?”

She glanced hungrily over at the Wisconsin family who were being served their toast and one-syllable grits.

“To vote Rob out of the association, that's what.”

“Peggy!”

“Well, it's embarrassing, Abby. Having one of our members up on murder charges. What do I say to customers?”

“He didn't do it, Peggy! That's why we're all here. To find a way to prove he didn't.”

“Still, in the meantime, we should vote him out. I'm sure we all feel that way. Don't we, Major?”

The Major sidled up to Peggy. “Yes?”

He has been trying halfheartedly to woo Peggy for as long as I've known them, but she isn't the slightest bit interested. Apparently their chemistry just isn't right for each other. It is a real shame, too, because I can see a lot of good coming from that union. Peggy could finally give up food, and with any luck, the Führer's pajamas would be retired. Personally, I think it's worth a shot.

“Tell Abigail what you told me,” Peggy said.

The Major stepped forward and squared his shoulders. “We don't want an accused murderer in our little group. That's what I said.”

I glared up at him. “Why the hell not? Won't he give you exclusive rights to his pajamas?”

“Very funny,” the Major said, and then stepped wisely back out of kicking range.

“Gretchen, do you feel this way, too?”

Gretchen nodded and mumbled something about the three tenors and Joan Lunden getting it on. I made a mental note to ask her for details later.

“How about you, Wynnell?”

“Well, Abby—”

I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. Everyone was deserting the cause before the breakfast had even begun. Even before Anita, our most conservative member, had arrived.

“Do y'all really feel this way?”

Wynnell, Gretchen, and the Major nodded. Even the Brady Bunch from Wisconsin nodded, although it was none of their damn business.

There was the staccato rap of machine-gun fire in the doorway, and I ducked behind Peggy. The Major, who had been properly trained in these matters, his the deck. Peggy and Wynnell are much braver than I, and didn't budge. Either that, or they recognized the sound of Anita coughing.

Sure enough, there she was, standing in the doorway, a vision of holiness. Anita wears modest, wrist-length sleeves, even in summer, and her skirts are what Rob calls “mud-
draggers.” She never wears any jewelry because it is somehow inherently sinful. However, I must say that the Holy Roller hairdo she sports is actually rather becoming on her. The woman is a very pale, natural blond, with no discernible lashes or brows. It is my personal opinion that she would benefit enormously from a little makeup, but who am I to judge? Besides, the tobacco stains on her teeth do supply a little contrast.

“Oh there you are, dear!” Peggy ran up to Anita and gave her a quick hug.

Anita smiled. “Are we all here?”

“All except for Bob Steuben, our newest member,” I said cheerfully.

Anita frowned. “You didn't tell her, then?”

“'Course I did,” Peggy said, “she just—”

I snatched a piece of cinnamon toast from the tourists' table and crammed it in Peggy's mouth. They were too busy complaining about the butter in their cereal to notice.

“Let's all take a seat, shall we?” I asked brightly. “We have a lot to cover this morning.” Whatever my colleagues had decided didn't count, not until they had heard me out.

We were able to order and listen to Anita say grace before returning to the subject of Rob Goldburg.

“Amen,” I chanted. I gently tapped my water glass. “Now, folks, about Rob Goldburg. Here's what I had in mind. Of course—”

“Anita is our president,” Gretchen said. She looked at me over the tops of enormous round frames. “Shouldn't she be calling this meeting to order?”

I smiled sweetly. “Yes, dear, but I called this meeting.”

“Are you paying for our breakfasts?” Peggy asked.

“Hey, no fair! Not unless she does something about my dress first!” Wynnell turned to me and gave me a world-class withering look.

“You may rummage through my sewing scrap bag,” I said generously. “Take whatever you want, but not that square of cotton paisley. I'm saving that for a halter top.”

It was like telling a child they could have all the candy in
a candy shop except one particular chocolate bar. Of course, I was one step ahead of Wynnell.

“That's the hot-pink material with the yellow paisleys, isn't it? Why can't I have that?”

I sighed deeply. “All right, dear, you can have the paisley piece, but you owe me one.”

Wynnell nodded happily.

“Well, are you paying for breakfast, or not?” Peggy demanded.

“Okay, okay. But you can't change your order.” Believe it or not it was a happy compromise for both of us.

I tapped on my glass again. The Yankee children tapped on theirs, but I ignored them.

“Does anybody know what time it is?” I asked.

“It is exactly seven-forty-six,” Gretchen said wistfully. “Right now the three tenors are on Joan Lunden having a good time.”

“I think you misspoke, dear. Anyway, it's time we banded together to protect ourselves and our reputations.”

“By ousting Rob Goldburg, right?” Anita started to reach into her purse but stopped. The cigarette would have to wait for a private moment.

“Wrong,” I said. “Even if we oust Rob, and he is found guilty, our reputation is going to suffer. We will have had a murderer among our group. It will always be a scandal. Not only is no one going to want to buy my aunt's shop, but no one will buy his, either. We will have two shops sitting empty on our street.

“But on the other hand, if we help prove him innocent—which I believe he is—our little group has nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, once the police are convinced that Rob didn't murder my aunt, then they can start looking for the real killer. He may kill again, you know.”

“Not likely,” Anita said. “Now that he's in jail.”

I thought of borrowing one of Wynnell's withering looks but wisely opted for the candy approach.

“My aunt had many friends, dear. From what I hear that church is going to be packed for her funeral.”

Anita's eyes glazed over in anticipation of her Rock Hill
debut. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. Perhaps she was mouthing the words of the hymn she would sing.

“Now, back to what we can do to help Rob out,” I said firmly.

“Hmm, hmm.” The Major outlined his abbreviated mustache with a pudgy finger. “Not so fast there, girlie. There is just one thing wrong with your little scheme.”

“Yeth?” It is hard to enunciate clearly while biting one's tongue.

“Well, what's wrong is that Gretchen here saw Rob Goldburg enter your aunt's shop the evening she was killed. Just minutes before, as a matter of fact.”